pReTtY
"What's it like to be pretty?"
"What's it like to be pretty?"
"I don't know silly! That's why I asked you," Harlow asked matter-of-factually. Harlow was a 20 year-old woman, trapped in a 5 year-old's body. Completely intellectual, childish and a diva from her first glimpse of this fucked up world. Nobody had to tell her this, she already knew.
"Harlow, there is no such thing as a pretty person."I let the brush snag at the wet curls in effort to untangle the knots from last night's restless slumber. I couldn't sleep, everything spooked my mind, it was like the wild horse on Nana's acres if you even looked in his direction; afraid of everything. I hated it, lying paralyzed under the covers, unable to move without waking the night.
"Why of course there is dummy! Pretty is the opposite of ugly and there are some ugly people in this world," Harlow shot back. Her mind was quick but mine was quicker. We got it from "Mom".
"Beauty is subjective."
"Beauty is subjective," Harlow mimicked me, arms crossing, dropping her play make-up in the process. 5. I rolled my eyes, she was getting so damn good at pushing my buttons lately, I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. "Well I think you're pretty so.... What's it like to be you." She picked at her itty bitty blue painted toes, bouncing on the bed, items collecting on the shag rug below.
"Hell," I muttered, her mouth gaped. Shit she heard me. Harlow threw herself off the bed and skidded around my room, out the door and down the stairs like a bat outta hell and an elephant had a love child.
"MOMMY! MOMMY! MOMMY!" I could hear Harlow prepping her little mouth for the word vomit of snitching that was itching to escape. I had said a bad word.
"Low Low Low. What is it?" In my head I could see 'Mom' lifting Harlow from the ground cradling her on her hip the way she did millions of times since she couldn't hold her precious daughter like a football comfortably anymore.
"KamalisaidtheohIcan'trepeatit.It'ssobadmommmy.FinefineshesaidtheH-E-doublehockeystickswordinfrontofme!" I stood, left the room and sauntered down the stairs. For what? Damage control? Nope, I could never dig myself out of a hole when it came to Harlow with 'Mom' utterly pointless. Her word against mine and I always lost.
"Slow down. You talk a mile a minute my child geez." I sat on the second landing of the staircase, I could see there interaction from my spot, I doubt they noticed me, no one ever did. As I listened water dripped from my hair in a soothing rhythm leaving cold splashes on my bare shoulders.
"I can't say it twice! I'll really be going there with her too!" Harlow broke out into a dramatic sob, in addition to being incredibly intellectual she was an award-winning actress; manipulative. 'Mom' drew circles on her back, trying to calm down the little drama queen still lost in the matter of it all. She sat Harlow on the counter.
"Great, where I prepare my food. Disgusting," I thought, mentally reminding myself to bleach the granite after they disappeared.
"Hell." I stated standing, one foot hitting each step in time to little sniffles. 'Mom's' head snapped up and Harlow started up again; even louder.
"Mommy we must go to church to erase her sinning words," Harlow grabbed at 'Mom's' cheeks, looking at her dead in the eye in all seriousness.
"Kamali we talked about this not even 24 hours ago. I'm getting sick of you not listening to what I say." 'Mom' never raised her voice in front of Harlow, afraid it would taint her image of her womb provider. It was a stern tone, nothing more than her 'inside voice' as Harlow called it.
"Your point being? Its not like she hasn't heard it before. For gosh sake they say hell in church almost every service." My better sense was telling me to back down, and just give in like normal. Ignored.
"She said it again! Confessions!" Harlow screeched and squirmed on the counter. Standing, Harlow crossed the counter climbed on a chair and stepped down the rungs to the floor, racing towards the coat rack.
"Kamali!"
"Gianna!" Two could play that game, and I knew exactly where it stung her the most. Bulls-eye. Gianna looked down singular tears leaking down her structured cheekbones.
She was not my mother.
"Kamali you made her cry. Mommy don't cry oh no," Harlow cooed at Gianna, coat on, hands rubbing her thighs the highest she could reach. She glared at me. "Say sorry."
"No." I was in a standoff with a 5-year old, what was my life coming too?
"I hate you."
That stung like a bitch. I grabbed my coat, slipped into some shoes. I said nothing. My hair was still wet.
YOU ARE READING
There Is No Grey
Jugendliteratur"What's it like to be pretty?" Pretty, attractive, cute, beautiful, blah blah blah. They were just words to her, she knew they didn't mean anything, they were just fluff. Besides what's the point in believing in those words if no one ever said them...
